Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4)

by James L. Nelson

  He stared in their direction for a moment more, then turned and disappeared into the woods.

  Failend let out her breath and heard Louis do the same. They looked at one another and they smiled in their relief. It was a natural reaction but an odd, incongruous one as well.

  They remained where they were, motionless, listening, watching. How long they stayed there Failend did not know, but it seemed a very long time. The sun was well up, it was full daylight, though muted and soft under the overcast, when Louis finally spoke.

  “They’ve given up, I think. Gone back to the dúnad. They will have to tell Colman they failed to kill us.”

  Failend nodded, thought, Aileran’s corpse will tell him that, I suspect.

  For a minute more they remained where they were, then Louis stood up and Failend did as well, her muscles stiff and protesting. She felt her stomach growl, and would have been happy for something the eat. She reminded herself that she had just killed a man a few hours earlier, but she had to admit that seemed to have little effect on her appetite.

  Breakfast, however, was not going to happen anytime soon.

  Louis looked around. “We should put some more distance between us and your husband’s army,” he said.

  “You can probably stop calling him my husband now,” Failend said.

  Louis nodded. “Anyway, we should move. That way.” He pointed inland, away from the river, but Failend shook her head.

  “There’s nothing there, just open country,” she said. “Maybe some bands of outlaws. We should cross the river again, see if there are travelers on the road who can help us.”

  She remembered then that she had taken Aileran’s purse. She looked down and saw the little bag was still wedged in her belt and she pulled it free.

  “This is our entire fortune right here,” she said, “unless you happened to have brought your own purse.” She tugged the end open and dumped the contents into her open palm. There was not much. A wedge of silver cut from a larger coin, a simple gold ring, and three other silver coins, intact, identical and new-looking.

  Louis looked down at the little hoard, then leaned in and looked closer. “Merde…” he said, but in a thoughtful tone. He reached down and picked up one of the three coins, held it up between thumb and forefinger and scrutinized it in the weak light.

  “Bâtard…” he mumbled.

  “What is it?” Failend asked.

  “See here,” Louis said. He lowered the coin and pointed to the profile of a man stamped on the side and the blocky letters that encircled him.

  “Not a great likeness,” Louis said. “I would not have known who it was, if it was not written there.”

  “I don’t know letters,” Failend said.

  “It says ‘Eberhard I’,” Louis said. “My brother, count of Roumois. Minting his own coins now, apparently.”

  Failend shook her head. “Your brother’s coin? How does Aileran come to have such a thing?”

  “He must have got it from your…from Colman,” Louis said. “My brother must think I’m still a threat. The man who tried to kill me back at my cell, he said just one word. Bâtard. I remember now. He was Frankish. He must have been sent by my brother. He must have paid Colman with my brother’s coins to have me killed. And Colman paid Aileran out of that.”

  Failend nodded. So, in the end Colman did care enough that I was humping someone to have my lover killed, she thought. Or have me killed. It’s all about some stupid dung heap in Frankia. This realization did not make her happy.

  “Come along, let’s go,” she said, her tone more snappish than she intended. She pushed her way back through the woods, then back down the river bank, and began crossing to the other side. She did not ask Louis’s opinion of her actions, and Louis said nothing, just followed behind.

  They came out on the other side of the river and then made their way up the bank and back into the woods. They moved cautiously; both were nearly certain that Aileran’s men had returned to the dúnad by then, but not so certain that they dared show themselves in the open. So they worked their way through the wood to where it yielded to the open ground. They found a patch of thick brush and hunkered down there. Each took a turn looking out while the other slept.

  It was sometime in the late morning as Failend was keeping watch that she heard the riders approaching. She turned her ear in the direction of the sound. Horses, to be certain. Not too many of them, but more than one. She nudged Louis and he sat up. His hair was tousled and there was a confused look on his face.

  “Riders,” Failend said in a low voice, wondering as she did why she did not speak out loud. No rational reason not to, but it just seemed like a bad idea.

  Louis cocked his head, listened. He nodded. He got to his knees and the two of them looked out toward the road, a quarter mile away. As they did the riders appeared from the north. There were ten of them, men-at-arms, with spears and shields. They rode at a slow trot but there was no urgency about them.

  “Scouts,” Louis said.

  “Looking for us?” Failend asked.

  “I’m sure they are,” Louis said. “And for the heathens too, I would imagine.”

  They watched as the riders moved past. If any of the men-at-arms even looked in their direction, they could not tell. Soon after, Louis took over and Failend laid down and gave herself over to a fitful sleep. She woke to Louis shaking her softly.

  “Listen,” Louis said. Failend listened. Birds. Branches moving in the breeze. Insects. And something else, far off. Sharp sounds, like little things breaking.

  “It’s a fight of some sort. A mile away. Maybe more,” Louis said. They listened but could hear very little, and they could not say for certain what it was they were hearing. Twenty minutes later the riders were back, going the other way. They were riding fast now, and there were fewer of them.

  “Whoever they were looking for, they found the heathens, I’ll warrant,” Louis said.

  They continued to wait, continued to watch. They had agreed to remain there until dark, but Failend’s stomach no longer cared for that plan, and it was becoming more vocal. She was thirsty as well.

  “See here,” Louis said, pointing toward the road, pointing in the direction from which they had heard the fighting. There was something moving a long way off, a wagon of some sort. They watched as it made its slow approach, drawn by a team of four oxen, and soon realized there was a second wagon behind it, pulled by a similar team. A few minutes later they saw a third.

  “Ha!” Louis said. “I know this fellow! A player and his company. His name is… Crimthann! Yes, that’s it.”

  “Will he help us?” Failend asked.

  “I think so,” Louis said. “He seemed a decent sort. He’ll feed us, at least, though we may have to give him Aileran’s hoard in exchange.”

  “Then let us go,” Failend said and she stood for the first time in hours. “He’s welcome to cut my throat as long as he gives me a decent meal first.”

  They stepped from the brush and into the tall grass. They made their way toward the road, heading for a spot where they would meet up with the wagons and their promise of food and drink and, if luck was with them, safety as well.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I pray a prayer to God

  that neither death nor danger may come to me…

  may [I] not die by point or edge.

  The Annals of Ulster

  The monastic city of Glendalough sat cupped in a valley surrounded by the high country of Cill Mhantáin. The stone cathedral and the other buildings on the monastery grounds and the vellum and the village clinging to its periphery were all clustered at the base of those steep slopes, where the mountains rolled off in every direction like great ocean swells frozen in place. They were not jagged, forbidding mountains, but rather soft and rounded and tree covered, and when the weather was fine and warm in the summer months they seemed to invite travelers to wend their way through the narrow gaps and meadows between them.

  In such a meadow
, a few miles to the east of Glendalough, a haphazard camp was spread out over the lush spring grass. Not just a camp but a dúnad, the camp of an army in the field, an army on the march. But they were not marching that day. They were not fighting. They were not doing much of anything. They were just waiting.

  They were waiting by order of Kevin mac Lugaed, who commanded the forces there. And Kevin’s chief worry at the moment was that his dinner would be ruined by his steward, who was an indifferent cook. The cook back at the ringfort at Ráth Naoi was considerably better, but she was old and would not have tolerated the rigors of campaigning, even though Kevin’s campaigns tended to be no more rigorous than a hunting party.

  Happily, Kevin’s steward had performed better than he normally did, and the roast was served just as Kevin liked it, and the spring vegetables had not been reduced to a viscous mess. Kevin sighed with satisfaction as he pushed the empty plates away and leaned back. And then he heard a voice from beyond the door of his pavilion calling to him and he thought, Dear God, can I not have a moment’s peace?

  “Come!” he shouted. The flap covering the door was lifted and Niall mac Olchobar stepped in. He wore mail and a sword, as was fitting a man-at-arms in the field, though Kevin himself wore only a tunic and leggings and several gold chains around his neck.

  “Yes, Niall, what is it?” Kevin asked in a weary tone.

  “There’s someone to see you, lord,” Niall said. “Ah…a priest, lord.”

  There was hesitation in Niall’s voice, as well there might be. “A priest?” Kevin said, frowning. “Did the watchmen bring him in?”

  “No, lord,” Niall said. “He just appeared in camp.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Ah…I’m not certain, lord.”

  Kevin frowned deeper. He might be an indifferent soldier at best, but he was no fool, and he knew better than to let himself to be caught unawares. There were watchmen surrounding the dúnad, men-at-arms positioned in hidden places looking out in every direction with orders to stop anyone – anyone – who approached the camp. And yet somehow, with the sun well up and no rain or fog, this priest had managed to come unseen into the dúnad.

  Kevin stood and stepped past Niall, out of the dim tent and into the watery light of a late morning sun filtered through heavy clouds. The priest was there, just beyond the line of stakes to which the tent ropes were secured, but before acknowledging him Kevin ran his eyes over the dúnad and the countryside beyond, a thing he always did on leaving his pavilion.

  There was little activity in the camp. The hundred or so men-at-arms under his command were busy at various tasks; cooking, tending to weapons, sleeping, practicing with sword and shield. They did those things to fill the time as they waited for Kevin to gauge the moment when they should strike. And to decide who they should strike.

  Beyond the camp there were the mountains, mountains rolling off to the distance, and the gray sky above. To the west of the dúnad were a pair of rounded hills that in Kevin’s mind looked so much like a woman’s breasts that he found it titillating to look at them. And he knew that if the hand of God were to suddenly brush them away he would be able to see Glendalough just a few miles distant.

  Niall had followed Kevin out of the pavilion, and now he stepped up beside him and gesturing said, “This here’s the priest, lord.”

  Before Kevin could say anything the priest took a step toward him and said, “Kevin mac Lugaed?”

  Kevin looked the man over. The priest wore the standard dress of his tribe, a black robe with a cowl falling down his back, a gnarled hickory walking stick in hand. He was smiling, but it was an odd sort of smile. A knowing smile, sympathetic and yet determined.

  Here looking for a bloody tithing, I’ll warrant, Kevin thought, then said, “Yes, I am Kevin mac Lugaed. And you are?”

  “Father Finnian,” the priest said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. One hears much of Kevin mac Lugaed, but you were not so easy to find.”

  Dear Lord, he’s starting in with the arse kissing already, Kevin thought. I don’t imagine this one will go away for anything less than a gold chalice.

  “Welcome to my camp, Father,” Kevin said. He wanted to ask the priest how he had managed to elude all of the watchmen, but somehow he knew he would get no satisfactory answer. Instead, he asked, “May I help you, poor man that I am?”

  “Yes,” Finnian said. “You may help me. And I may help you.”

  Kevin nodded. He waited for more but nothing more came. Finally Kevin broke the silence.

  “So, we may help each other,” he said. “And how is that?” He was fairly certain he knew the answer already. It would involve salvation in exchange for silver, he suspected.

  “You have done well for yourself this past year, Kevin mac Lugaed,” Finnian said.

  “God has been good to me, Father,” Kevin said.

  “He has,” Finnian agreed. “Last year you were but a Lord of Superior Testimony. Now you are rí túaithe of Cill Mhantáin. And a wealthy man.”

  Here we go, Kevin thought. “As I said, God has been good to me,” he said. “And I have shown my gratitude to God.”

  “Have you indeed?” Father Finnian said. “How? By conspiring with the heathens to sack Glendalough?”

  Finnian’s words hit Kevin like a punch to the back of the head: shocking, painful and unexpected.

  “Heathens….sacking Glendalough?” he sputtered as he searched for a reply. And then his balance returned, and he realized that he did not need a reply because this Finnian was just a simple priest, and by the look of him and his mud-splattered robe not a particularly important one. Kevin took a step in his direction, a menacing step, with Niall beside him. He expected Finnian to back away, which he did not. But no matter.

  “How dare you suggest…” Niall began but Kevin could see that this conversation might be one best kept private.

  “Niall,” Kevin interrupted. “Pray, leave us.”

  Niall looked at Kevin, looked at Finnian and then back at Kevin. He did not want to leave, that was clear, but he bowed and said, “Yes, lord.” He shot an ugly look at Finnian and then marched off, because there was nothing else he could do.

  Kevin turned back to Finnian. “I will not tolerate your accusations or your insolence, Father,” he said, low and threatening. “Do not presume to come into my camp and impugn my character thus.”

  “Do you know why you have remained rí túaithe of Cill Mhantáin?” Finnian asked, as if he had not even heard Kevin’s words.

  “Yes. Because God wishes it,” Kevin said.

  That answer brought a flicker of a smile to Finnian’s lips. “Well, yes, that is the chief reason,” he admitted. “But it is also because Ruarc mac Brain allows it. Lord Ruarc could, in fact, crush you at any moment like the loathsome insect you are.”

  Kevin heard the words, but for a moment the insult was too shocking to register. No one had dared speak to him that way in a long time, and Finnian spoke the words in the same calm, matter-of-fact voice he had been using all along.

  Then he realized what Finnian had said, and once again he felt the surprise blow to the back of the head. He felt a flash of rage and he was on the verge of shouting, but he stopped himself. He stood straighter, drew in a deep breath. He was not the sort to let others get the better of him, verbally or otherwise. He would not let some sorry, powerless priest lead him around like an ox with a ring through its nose.

  “I have not had the honor of meeting Ruarc mac Brain,” Kevin said. “I know he’s a powerful man. A fair man. He has that reputation. I do not think he is much interested in me.”

  “You’re right, Lord Kevin,” Finnian said. “He cares no more for you than he does for the dung that clings to his boots. But yonder, in Glendalough,” Finnian nodded toward the breast-like hills to the west, “wait nearly two hundred of his men. They are there at my behest to try and stop the heathens from sacking the monastery. The heathens, I should say, that you encouraged to come here.”

&nbs
p; Kevin frowned, but that was all the anger he allowed himself to display. “That’s absurd…” he began but Father Finnian stopped him with a wave of his hand.

  “Understand, lord, that I make it my business to know what’s going on in these lands about,” Finnian explained like a patient tutor. “It’s the abbot’s wish that I do and so I see that wish fulfilled. So I know what you’ve done, and I suspect now you are waiting for the heathens to kill one another and to kill those who would defend Glendalough and then you’ll sweep in and pick up what remains.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Kevin said but even he heard the lack of conviction in his voice. He could no longer muster the proper outrage because, of course, the priest was exactly right. That was exactly what he was doing.

  “It’s true that Ruarc mac Brain does not care a whit about you,” Finnian continued. “But if his men-at-arms die at the hands of the heathens, or worse, at the hands of your men, then he will care very much. And he has many, many more men than you do. I think you know that.”

  I should just kill this bastard, Kevin thought. Take him into my tent and kill him. Then I can do as I wish, and Ruarc mac Brain none the wiser.

  Kevin pressed his lips hard together and looked in Finnian’s eyes and gathered his resolve. And Finnian met his gaze, his brown eyes deep and patient and thoughtful. He looked as if he knew what Kevin was thinking and was not in the least concerned about it.

  They stood like that for a moment, and Kevin felt his resolve draining away like water from a broken cup.

  “What is it you would have me do?” he asked, the question coming out like a sigh.

  “The heathens will attack soon. Today. March there now, quickly. Join the men defending Glendalough, the local men and Ruarc mac Brain’s, and we will surely drive the heathens back to the sea. Then you can appear to be a hero, and no one the wiser.”